


An Aching Soul

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Clubbing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, HP: EWE, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Pining, Post-War, Queer Themes, Romance, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4213923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I can’t help but wonder if Potter’s really as fine as he claims to be. There’s something strange about seeing the vanilla hero of the wizarding world eye-fucking someone across a crowded bar before slipping off into the shadows</i>
</p><p>Draco Malfoy escapes to the Muggle world to avoid his parents, memories of the war and Harry Potter. However, some things prove harder to escape than others as Draco realises when his favourite Muggle haunt is rudely invaded by a post-war Harry who is struggling to cope with grief, growing up and the battle with his inner demons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Aching Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: I leapt on this prompt as a pinch hit, because I love this song. The prompt with the song suggested the story could go in any direction if inspiration hit and it deviated a little from the prompt suggestion, because the boys just wouldn’t break up :D - I hope you’re happy with the outcome, mystery prompter. Thank you to mab for the alpha read and encouragement and thank you to A for the SPaG check. Thank you also to the ever patient mods. You’re wonderful!

No one is more surprised than me to find the Muggle world is more palatable than my own. If I’m rich in the wizarding world, I’m a fucking prince in the Muggle one. I can make friends without anyone passing judgment on decisions I may or may not have made in the past.  
  
_I'm Draco Malfoy, I'm Draco, I'm on your side!_.  
  
Mother and father are too busy trying to avoid prison and ingratiate themselves with the Ministry to give a kneazle’s whisker about my whereabouts and their lack of interest in the way I spend my time proves useful. I drink strong coffee in the cafés and wine bars of Mayfair reading  _The Daily Telegraph_ ,  _The Guardian_  and  _Le Monde_  until I’m better educated on Muggle current affairs than some of my newfound friends. I sometimes venture into the City or Canary Wharf with a copy of the  _Wall Street Journal_  or the distinctive orange  _FT_  underneath my arm, and talk idly with suited bankers, fund managers and lawyers about the economy.  
  
It keeps me busy and I have no desire to read the wizarding news these days. The pages are full of Potter looking serious as he plays pretend-Auror, and lengthy obituaries commemorating the dead.  
  
Being around Muggles is liberating and refreshingly easy.  _London_  is surprisingly liberating. I always thought it must be dreadfully boring without magic, Quidditch and vaults of gold, but Muggles make up for that with their own inventions and a pleasing absence of Dark wizards. Everything is available in London if you’re young, attractive and willing to pay for the pleasure.  _Everything_ , from white powder which makes me feel like a rock star to invitation-only parties where people drink champagne, wear masks and seek discreet, anonymous pleasure in one another’s arms. As tempting as it is at times to save my money with a quick Obliviate here or a discreet  _Confundus_  there, I have to keep my nose clean after the war. It wouldn’t do to have Aurors swooping in and spoiling my fun.  
  
So I keep my magic to myself and begin to understand the workings of the Muggle world, under the pretence of studying for a frightfully dull job with the Ministry. I discover people and clubs which open my eyes to the world – a world which is so much bigger than Hogwarts, Malfoy Manor and Harry Potter.  
  
After six months of immersing myself into Muggle London, I venture out of the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea and discover Soho.  
  
I’m surprised to find that too, is palatable.  


 

*

  
  
I see him for the first time in person across a crowded Muggle bar in the heart of London’s West End.  
  
Of course, I expect to see Potter at dull Ministry events designed to give him another opportunity to lord it over the rest of us mere mortals, but I never expected to see him  _here_  flirting with a group of men in a Muggle bar. I’m furious, and pissed on two for one Mojitos and at least three Jägerbombs designed to keep me dancing all night. I just want to be left alone – I have no desire to share this with anyone, least of all with a sanctimonious prick of a war hero who has an axe to grind with me and my family.  
  
I expect Potter to recoil with horror at the sight of me – to turn from the club with a huff of indignation at being caught out sullying himself in Malfoy territory.  
  
Instead, he smiles.  
  
The arrogance of him makes my hands clench at my sides. It’s a lazy smile, his eyes shining under the strobe lighting and then – as if the smile wasn’t already bad enough – he has the audacity to wink.  
  
I’m not having Harry Potter barge into my carefully cultivated safe haven, looking rumpled and winking at me while he drinks his beer as if he doesn’t have a care in the war. I resist the urge to start throwing hexes and push my way through the crowd until we’re toe to toe.  
  
“Potter, get out of here.”  
  
“It’s a free country, Malfoy.” He looks around, his face open and curious. I wonder if this is Potter’s first time in a Muggle club and shudder at the thought of Potter gyrating clumsily on the dance floor.  
  
“This is a gay bar,” I point out, eyebrow arched and tone scathing.  
  
Potter folds his arms across his chest and he meets my gaze head on, the same annoying smile still playing over his lips. “I’m aware of that. I haven’t stumbled through the wrong door if that’s what you’re thinking.”  
  
“Did you know I’d be here?” I narrow my eyes at Potter, peering over his shoulder half expecting to see a gormless looking Weasley behind him. Perhaps part of Potter’s training involves following former Death Eaters around to see if they’re up to no good.  
  
“Hardly.” Potter lets out a snort of laughter and then leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “It’s good to see a friendly face.”  
  
If Potter thinks I’m a friendly face he’s even more stupid than he looks, and I tell him so. He rewards me with a laugh and rolls his eyes, holding his hands out in a gesture of defence.  
  
“Do you have to be so prickly? We’re not in Hogwarts anymore. I’m just trying to be friendly.”  
  
“Shut  _up_ ,” I hiss. “You can’t just bandy around words like  _Hogwarts_  here.”  
  
“I can’t?” Potter takes it as a challenge and leans forward again, his voice low and teasing. “Pity. ‘Is that a wand in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me’ is one of my favourite lines. Should I stop using it?”  
  
I give him a look and fold my arms nodding at the bar. “If you’re going to be annoying the least you can do is buy me a drink.”  
  
Instead of replying, Potter gives me another infuriating grin and makes his way to the bar.  
  
I decide to follow largely because I have no better options. It’s a quiet night and teasing Potter about being a virgin sounds marginally more entertaining than getting drunk by myself in the corner, fighting off advances from a persistent bear I have zero interest in fucking.  
  
As he walks, I try very hard not to look at Potter’s arse which is flattered by sinfully tight jeans. With all the possibilities I’ve discovered in the Muggle world, the last thing I need is to start ogling Potter and end up back where I started.  
  
The very last thing.  


 

*

  
  
The first time I see Potter with another man, my blood runs cold.  
  
Attracting Muggles comes ridiculously easy to Potter and they flock to him with little effort on his part. I’ve been dancing and drinking for days in the same bar without finding a single person of interest, and Potter strides in and lands himself in a heated groping session within minutes. It’s beyond infuriating.  
  
He’s not the best dancer in the club, and he never strips out of his tight t-shirts or checked shirts. He doesn’t wear sleeveless vests which flaunt endless biceps and I strongly suspect Potter hasn’t been inside a gym any more than I have. None of that seems to matter to the Muggle men who – quite literally – fall at his feet as if he’s some kind of untidy sex-god. He exudes easy confidence and when he’s with someone his hands tighten in their hair and he seems to know just what to whisper to make his partners bump and grind against him, glassy eyed and flushed with arousal. It’s so peculiar that  _anybody_  could be glassy-eyed over Potter that I have to ask him if he’s using magic.  
  
“I didn’t think war heroes and Aurors in training were supposed to use Imperius to get a shag,” I comment after Potter takes a break from the dancefloor and joins me at the bar, his eyes wild and shining.  
  
“Piss off, Malfoy. Just because you find me about as attractive as a Hippogriff’s scrotum, that doesn’t mean everyone else has to feel the same way.”  
  
I give Potter a side-long glance trying to see something of the sex appeal everyone seems to think he exudes but he’s still just Harry Potter – nobler than thou and completely insufferable. I can’t help but wonder if Potter’s really as fine as he claims to be. There’s something strange about seeing the vanilla hero of the wizarding world eye-fucking someone across a crowded bar before slipping off into the shadows.  
  
“Do you speak Parseltongue to them?” I ask, conversationally. I can see how someone might like that.  
  
Potter rolls his eyes. “Yes, of course. I hiss at them repeatedly. It’s surprisingly effective.”  
  
“No spells at all?” I clarify, because I still can’t quite believe it. “Or a drop of some kind of love potion?”  
  
Now Potter looks angry and he knits his eyebrows together in a way which means I’m about to find myself on the receiving end of a dull lecture about being a good Muggle. “You’re asking me if I  _drug_  people to make them have sex with me? Seriously, Malfoy?”  
  
I ponder it for just long enough to watch Potter turn an angry shade of red. It does sound a little farfetched when Potter puts it like that. I shrug and take my drink. “There’s no accounting for taste.”  
  
I leave Potter to it, and go back to watching him dance like an idiot to a cheesy Muggle pop song which drives everyone wild.  
  
He’s never with anyone else I recognise and he never leaves with the same person. I sometimes suspect he’s taken to hiding in a crowd, just like me.  
  
I wonder if this is his little secret, if Weasley and Granger have any inkling of Potter’s proclivity for Muggle men, one night stands and Taylor Swift. I wonder if they know any of the things I’m just discovering. I know how Potter moves on the dancefloor. I know where Potter comes and who he comes with every Thursday. I know how he kisses like he’s possessed, with his eyes closed and his cheeks pink with desire and booze. I bet Weasley doesn’t know  _that_.  
  
I know more about Potter than I care to, and perhaps that means I know him best of all.  


 

*

  
  
Even in a city as big as London, there are places where strangers quickly become acquaintances. It’s not long before Potter becomes one of the familiar faces across the bar, his hair rumpled and messy. Nobody else knows he’s a war hero and a typical Gryffindor. Nobody has a clue that he’s an orphan with a pot of cash and an ugly house from his dead godfather, and I wonder what they would say if they did know. When I see him leave with different men, I wonder how he explains away Kingsley’s Patronus bursting into his room and interrupting his fucking, calling Potter to go and fight for one noble cause or another.  
  
I can’t help but smile at that image, the idea of Potter’s ruined orgasm pleasing to me. I  _do_  hope that happens one day. Perhaps Potter will be soundly disciplined and banned from Muggle clubs for life, and then I can be left to my own devices again.  
  
I make my way to the bar, pointedly ignoring Potter when he approaches.  
  
“A whiskey sour and a bottle of mineral water.”  
  
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Potter says as if I was addressing him.  
  
“You keep to your part of the club, and I’ll keep to mine.” I pay for my drink and eye Potter who looks content, as if there isn’t a lifetime of war and anger stretching between us.  
  
Potter shakes his head and leans back against the bar. He’s drinking his usual bottled beer and he looks as if he should be working on a farm instead of clubbing in London. I resist the urge to tell him so, biting my tongue. “They don’t exactly segregate people into house groups here. We’re both here for the same reason – two gay wizards pretending to be Muggles, who fuck strangers to forget the war.”  
  
Potter’s fierce words leave me reeling and I take a sip of my drink before responding.  
  
“Speak for yourself. I’m not fucking to forget anything.” I don’t tell Potter I’m not really fucking at all. Muggle London can be just as unsafe as the wizarding world for different reasons entirely. I’m usually happy to snort coke and dance until the lights come up or drink whisky sours until I can’t remember my own name. I couldn’t care less about fucking a Muggle who doesn’t hold my interest for longer than one of the horrible songs pumping from the speakers. Besides, I’m usually too busy watching Potter, wondering why he isn’t at the Ministry doing heroic things.  
  
“Come on,” Potter scoffs. He orders another beer and two shots, pushing one in my direction. “It wasn’t so long ago you despised everything Muggle and now you’re…what?” He arches an eyebrow and looks me up and down, his lips twitching into a smile. “A bona fide Muggle with  _very_  expensive taste?”  
  
“At least some of us have taste,” I mutter. Potter’s words rankle and I glare at him. “At least I have a reason for being here. What the fuck do you have to run from? Is Shacklebolt trying to give you another award for bravery? Poor Potter. How exhausting it must be trying to cope with being everyone’s idol.”  
  
Potter blinks at me and gives me a grim smile, pushing himself off the bar. “You have no idea. Not a fucking clue. I thought, perhaps, you might understand.” He downs his shot and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. His eyes flick around the bar and I recognise the look of determination. Potter’s already on the prowl.  
  
“What makes you think we have anything in common?” I hiss at Potter, keeping my voice low in an effort to stop shouting.  
  
“We have this.” Potter waves his hand at the dancefloor and shrugs. “It’s more than I have with anyone else.”  
  
I take that as confirmation that Potter’s still in the closet and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re still being married off to the wrong Weasley?”  
  
Potter laughs softly and he shakes his head, turning to me briefly. “I prefer to fuck up my own life, thanks. Not the lives of people I care about. I’m not a total dick.”  
  
“I beg to differ,” I mutter, but I’m not sure Potter hears. A man murmurs something in Potter’s ear and the sight makes me irrationally furious. My heart pounds in my chest as Potter gives me a nod of dismissal and moves towards the dancefloor. I watch Potter grinding against his latest conquest before turning my back and drinking my shot. When I look back, I’m just in time to catch a glimpse of Potter disappearing through the door with two men following close behind.  
  
I wonder if I’m in some kind of parallel universe where Potter has threesomes and I’m standing at the bar alone fending off advances from sweaty idiots the Draco Malfoy of old wouldn’t have bothered looking at twice.  
  
With a growl of frustration, I get my coat and leave the club alone.  


 

*

  
  
The first time Potter asks me to dance, I tell him to fuck off.  
  
The second time, I tell him to buy me a drink and I’ll think about it. By the time I’ve finished my drink I’ve got a better offer and I dance right in Potter’s eye line, his gaze burning my skin.  
  
The third time, he doesn’t bother asking at all. He cuts in when I’m showing off some of my better moves, but because I was largely showing off to him I can’t be bothered to protest.  
  
Potter’s hands slide onto my hips and he presses his lips to my ear. “I think we should be friends.”  
  
The declaration both excites and deflates me in equal measure and I keep just enough distance so Potter can’t feel how hard I am. “I think that’s a ridiculous idea.”  
  
“We should go for coffee.” He’s too close now, smelling of sweet alcohol and cologne. His fingers continue to slide over my hips and my mouth goes dry as the fact I want to fuck Potter hits me square in the face.  
  
“I thought you didn’t fuck anyone more than once?”  
  
“Who said anything about fucking?” Potter laughs, his cheeks pink from the heat of the lights and the crowds on the dancefloor. “It’s just coffee.”  
  
The corner of my mouth curves into a smile and I press close enough to brush my fingers against the front of Potter’s jeans. He’s thick, long and  _hard_. Even just touching him with the tips of my fingers is enough to make me salivate. “It’s never just coffee. Not with us. If you want to go for coffee, ask Granger.”  
  
Potter catches my hand, his fingers twining around my wrist. His eyes flash. “Is that a no?”  
  
I pull away from Potter to leave him dancing alone. He’ll find someone else soon enough, he always does. As I pass him, I lean in and speak in his ear. “It’s a maybe.”  
  
This time I let Potter watch  _me_  leave.  


 

*

  
  
In the end, I agree to go for coffee.  
  
Potter’s surprisingly good company when he’s not thinking with his prick, or talking about fighting some kind of noble cause. He’s even more casually dressed than he is when he’s clubbing, dressed in torn jeans and a black t-shirt with the faded yellow emblem of a Muggle band on the front. A lumpy looking olive green jumper rests over his battered brown satchel, the elbows patched up with leather.  
  
“Nirvana.” I purse my lips and turn my eyes to the ceiling because just like Potter, I’ve done my research. “You’re not even in the right decade, Potter.”  
  
“They’re timeless. It’s fine.” Potter grins and takes a bite of his chocolate cake. A crumb clings to his lip and I resist the urge to lean in and brush it away with my thumb. “Are you worried I’ll blow our cover?”  
  
“I’m worried you’ll blow  _your_  cover. I trust you won’t bring me down with you.” I gesture for another coffee and stir the foam with my spoon when it arrives. We’re in familiar territory in Soho at least, served gloriously rich cups of coffee by a man wearing thick eyeliner who looks as though he fancies servicing Potter in a different manner entirely. I brush my monogramed blazer with a frown and eye Potter with disdain, wondering why nobody seems to have any kind of fashion sense in this part of London. I should have suggested Chelsea, where I could have had the satisfaction of watching Potter get turned away from my favourite wine bar because of his raggedy canvas trainers.  
  
Potter seems to notice my dissatisfaction and he leans back, looking smug. “You’re not his type, any more than he is yours. Why do you care if he’s interested in me?”  
  
“How do you know he’s not my type?” I look back at the waiter who is much taller than me which I despise and too edgy for my liking. I frown, and look back at Potter. “I don’t have a type.”  
  
“No? I thought you liked Sloanes. Posh boys.” Potter shrugs as if he doesn’t care anyway. “I don’t have a type either.”  
  
I resist the urge to make a snide comment because it must be apparent to half of queer London that Potter isn’t exactly choosy.  
  
“You don’t have a clue.” I resist the urge to give Potter the satisfaction of correcting him, in case I end up revealing my type might just be scruffy boy wonders with commitment issues.  
  
“I suppose I don’t.” Potter’s brow furrows and he licks the coffee foam from his lips in a gesture that is almost obscene. “I never see you with anyone. Don’t you go to the club to pull?”  
  
“Not all of us think with our pricks, Potter.” I sip my coffee too quickly and the liquid scalds my throat. I mutter a curse and compose myself. “I’m not interested in drunken fucks.”  
  
“No?” Potter looks almost disappointed. He leans forward and arches his eyebrow, lowering his voice. “But you do that, don’t you? Fuck, I mean?”  
  
I fight back the heat rising to my cheeks and cross my arms to put a barrier between me and Potter. “Of course I do. I’m just a bit more discreet about it. Not all of us like to have our arses groped in public.”  
  
“You’re more of a voyeur, then?” Potter grins and his voice has that low, teasing note that makes my cock respond eagerly.  
  
“Not unless there’s someone worth watching.” I hold Potter’s gaze, pleased to see him momentarily thrown. “Do you take them to Grimmauld Place?”  
  
Potter looks horrified and he shakes his head. “Fuck, no. Do you think I’m mental? I’m not sure how I’d explain the screaming portraits, not to mention the fact there’s no television.”  
  
“Then where?”  
  
Potter’s cheeks heat and he focuses on his coffee. “I usually get a room in a local hotel, or go to theirs. Or find another alternative.”  
  
I know all about the other alternatives. I saw Potter once, at the back of the club with his hands tangled in someone’s hair, pushing his hips roughly forwards with a look of unadulterated bliss on his face. I slammed the bathroom door behind me and left Potter and his faceless blond to it, going home with the memory of Potter getting sucked off etched on my brain.  
  
“It sounds like you have it all sorted out. Congratulations.”  
  
“It works well enough.” Potter shrugs. “Then there are the saunas.”  
  
“You go to saunas?” I almost choke on my coffee and Potter nods, giving me a sheepish smile.  
  
“You don’t?”  
  
“No.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re being careful?”  
  
Potter looks momentarily surprised and then he nods. “Of course.”  
  
I push my coffee away because the thought of Potter fucking and being fucked makes me hot and cold all at the same time.  
  
“Thanks for the coffee, Potter.” I push a ten pound note across the table and stand, suddenly in a hurry to leave and go to a place where images of Potter having sex don’t leave me faltering and uncertain.  
  
“I’ll see you Thursday?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
When I catch sight of Potter through the window I notice the waiter has taken my empty seat and I decide it’s time to start studying magical theory again. Curses, in particular.  
  
Something nasty, with boils.  


 

*

  
  
Next time we go for coffee I suggest meeting in Chelsea, hopeful that Potter might be thrown by being on my turf.  
  
Irritatingly he turns up looking better than ever. It makes my mouth water as I take in the expensive velvet blazer, the smart jeans and black leather silver buckled boots. His lightly striped shirt is open at the neck revealing a tantalising patch of skin just under his throat. I resist the urge to reach for Potter to ask him for sex instead of coffee.  
  
“Well, do I pass?” Potter gestures to his outfit and fingers the edge of his jacket with a low chuckle. “This belonged to Sirius. Flash bastard.” His happy smile falters.  
  
Black. Of course. I might have known Potter wouldn’t know good tailoring if it bit him on the backside. There’s something endearing about Potter going through his wardrobe just for a coffee with me, and dusting off his godfather’s old jacket. My heart clenches as I see the rich plum blazer and Potter in a different light. He looks older like this, his expression cloudy as he runs his fingers over the cuff of his blazer, lost in his memories.  
  
“You’ll do.” I break the silence and rest my hand on the small of Potter’s back in the pretence of steering him towards my favourite coffee shop, but mostly because I’m desperate to touch him. “They won’t serve you hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows so don’t even think about it.”  
  
Potter laughs and he slides his fingers down my arm, catching my hand in his and opening the door. “I never drink that. What makes you think I’m going to start today?”  
  
“Because you’re impossible,” I reply. Potter’s hand in mine feels like coming home. Our fingers twine together and then slide apart, the brief touch sending a flash of pleasure through my body. I wonder if Potter feels it too, this strange chemistry between us that has nothing to do with drugs or booze.  
  
We order our coffee and make small talk. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to take my eyes off Potter and one coffee spans into two, followed by a crisp glass of my favourite Sancerre.  
  
“Why did you become a Death Eater?” Potter asks, in the same way you might ask someone why they prefer the Canons to the Falcons or why they wear shoes instead of trainers. Just like that – an easy question that expects an easy answer. I wonder if he thinks we might share a significant moment as the day turns to dusk. Perhaps he expects us to laugh together, shed a few tears and go back to his place to fuck on the sofa where we can make promises of forever that we’re both too young to keep.  
  
_Why did you become a Death Eater?_  
  
The question helpfully repeats itself in my head, Potter’s voice relaxed and lubricated with white wine. The casual innocence rankles and his words slide into my ears, insinuating themselves into my brain. I wonder if I’ll ever stop thinking of Potter as better than me.  
  
“That’s a ridiculous question.” I bristle at the intrusion, irritated at Potter for spoiling a near perfect afternoon.  
  
“Is it?”  
  
Potter’s decision to ask about the war makes me furious. He should know not to throw questions like that around when I least expect to have to face the horrors of the final months before the Dark Lord’s demise.  
  
“It’s easy to talk about the war when you’re  _Harry Potter_ ,” I bite out. Of course it’s easy to talk about the war when you made all the right choices. Potter’s memories are probably full of victory speeches and winning endless awards. I wonder if his best dreams replay the moment he vanquished the most powerful Dark Wizard of all time. He’s never totally clear on the details, murmuring something irritatingly noble like  _I just did what I had to do, anyone else would have done the same_.  
  
“Is that really what you think?” A cloud passes over Potter’s face. I wonder why Potter can’t seem to grasp that he’s just asked a question that isn’t capable of being answered without a lifetime of soul searching. I move my hand from the centre of the table where I had inched it closer to his during our leisurely coffees. The air chills around us and I struggle to speak.  
  
“Yes.” I’m angry that he’s taken our moment of warmth and doused it with the icy waters of the past – furious that he’s ruined a perfectly innocent moment by reminding me yet again of my own stupidity. As if I don’t feel it every time he looks at me, and don’t get reminded of it every time I fail to meet his eyes, or take another line of cocaine just to feel confident again. “If you like difficult questions why don’t you tell me why you’re so fucking easy?”  
  
Potter looks as if he’s been slapped, and he sits back in his chair not taking his eyes off me. “Are we doing this?”  
  
“You started it.” Now I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop. I want to hurt Potter and watch him bleed before my eyes. I want him to feel what I do, just once.  
  
Potter’s voice stays cold, the once warm tendrils of speech now hard and icy. “At least I’m not coked up to my eyeballs half the time.”  
  
“Fuck you, Potter!” I spit out my words, furious with him. My blood boils and my heart hammers in my chest. I didn’t know he knew about that. I didn’t want him to, and my cheeks heat with shame. I have the strangest desire to cry – not that I’d ever give Potter the satisfaction of seeing my weaknesses.  
  
Potter pushes some money across the table and stands. “This is a stupid idea.”  
  
_Stay_ , I want to say. I want to know why Potter looks so disgruntled and why his jaw clenches and his eyes flicker with something I can’t read properly. I want to know why he has to fuck to forget. I want him to understand that sometimes it hurts to look at Potter straight on, like staring at the midday sun. I wonder if he knows how hard it is sometimes, just to meet his eyes.  
  
“Same time next week?” I say it with a sneer, like I couldn’t give a damn if I ever saw Potter again.  
  
He leaves in a gust of air and the bell above the door rings to signal his exit. I stay long enough to polish off another three glasses of wine.  


 

*

  
  
Potter doesn’t approach me in the club next week, and I try to ignore him as best I can. It’s not easy to ignore someone like Potter. He laughs loudly and often, and he’s even louder when he’s pissed. He decides to climb up onto the podium, dancing like he doesn’t give a fuck and everybody watches like he’s something special. For someone who claims to hate celebrity, this Potter doesn’t seem to care much if he’s the centre of attention and I have to wonder why.  
  
It occurs to me when he finally climbs down and stumbles into the arms of a waiting admirer that something’s wrong. This isn’t the Potter that stands next to the bar and surveys the crowd with confidence. This isn’t the Potter that speaks in murmured whispers and takes his conquests somewhere (relatively) discreet.  
  
This Potter likes to throw his shirt over his head into the gathered crowds, slide his hands through his hair and dance like he won’t have another free night.  
  
With a muttered curse I leave my drink behind and tug Potter away from the man pawing at him. I grab his shirt and shove it into his hands, trying not to look too hard at his hard chest which is slick with perspiration. A line of dark hair snakes from his belly button and disappears into the waistband of his trousers, and my mouth goes dry. On his left arm Potter has tattoo of a stag’s head which flows into dark droplets which could be tears, or something else entirely. I’m mesmerised by the sight of it, and the music fades away until all I can hear is Potter’s laugh, the murmur of his voice and words from a long time ago.  
  
“Malfoy!” Potter breaks my reverie with a hoot of appreciation, and I’m back in the club with a half-cut Potter and a dancefloor full of people. Potter looks delighted and he leans close, swaying on his feet and speaking with an exaggerated whisper. “Don’t mention You Know Who.” He presses his finger to his lips, and shakes his head. “Don’t ask about the war.”  
  
“I don’t intend to.” I roll my eyes and Potter pulls me onto the dancefloor, turning me in dizzying circles.  
  
“Are we friends again?” He stops spinning me and catches his breath. He puts his hands on his knees and looks up from beneath his messy fringe, his eyes shining as he looks at me. “Please?”  
  
“You’ll regret this in the morning.” I help Potter into a standing position and he nuzzles my neck as he shrugs one arm awkwardly into his shirt. “You smell good.”  
  
“Drunken prat.” I can’t tell Potter he smells good too. He’s hot from dancing, and his slick skin slides against my neck. He smells musky and soapy. I walk Potter in a chaotic line to the door of the bar while he buttons his shirt in all the wrong places. He stretches his arms out when we get outside and throws his head back with a laugh. The movement reveals his toned stomach and his shirt bunches up around his chest, gaping holes where the buttons have been fastened incorrectly.  
  
The moon catches his face, his cheeks pink with exertion. His expression is open, happy and younger than I can remember seeing for a while. He looks like a slightly less together version of Harry Potter, Quidditch Captain – vibrant and full of possibility.  
  
When the thunder claps and the heavens open, Potter grips my hand. “Run.”  
  
“Why?” I stay put, the first plump drops of rain cooling my warm skin.  
  
Potter squeezes my hand and smiles as if he’s going to burst. “Because we can. Because we’re  _alive_.”  
  
There’s something so endearing about Potter when he’s drunk, I don’t have the heart to refuse him.  
  
So I run.  
  
_We_  run.  
  
The rain falls heavier still and the crowded throngs of people yell at us as we push past to find a quieter street full of empty shops which have long since closed. A bolt of lightning cuts through the night and we’re running again, splashing in every puddle and turning corners with alarming speed.  
  
I wonder what people would think if they could see us now.  
  
Just two wizards pretending to be Muggles, running through the rain until our lungs start to burn.  


 

*

  
  
I’m tempted to make Potter sleep on the sofa, but in the end I put him in the spare bedroom. I can hardly take him home when he might start slurring his words or clinging to me like a limpet. Instead I take him to my flat in Knightsbridge and resist the urge to help him out of his wet clothes.  
  
The rain and running seem to have done the trick, and Potter isn’t drunk anymore. He’s just quiet, and his eyes are hooded with sleep. He murmurs his thanks when I show him to his room, and I close the door when he turns his back to me and begins to unbutton his shirt.  
  
Around midnight I wake to the sound of crying which drifts through the thin walls and wraps around my ears until I’m close to crying myself. I shift onto my back and stare at the ceiling, trying to recall how the rain felt against my skin and how Potter looked when he laughed as if he’d never had to watch anyone die.  
  
Potter’s light was always so bright I never considered that he might cast a shadow – just like the rest of us.  
  
I begin to wonder if there’s a chance that Potter’s shadows could be just as dark and just as full as mine.  
  
When I wake in the morning there’s a thank you note on the pillow, and the room smells like freshly fallen rain.  


 

*

  
  
Potter asks me for a coffee on Tuesday and when I turn up at my favourite Chelsea café, there’s a mug of hot chocolate waiting for me, topped with whipped cream and marshmallows.  
  
“Your favourite,” Potter says. He licks some cream off his spoon and waves it in my direction. “Try it.”  
  
“You’re ridiculous.” I sit anyway, picking up my spoon and tasting the cream. I arch my eyebrow at Potter. “Your note was a staggering work of art. Poetic, really.  _Thanks_. That must have taken a good five seconds to compose.”  
  
Potter looks confused and then his cheeks heat. “Oh. I’m sorry, I should have stayed to say thank you properly. I’m not good on a hangover. You’d have had to make me eggs on toast.”  
  
“I’m not a glorified house-elf.” I tut and push the cream down into the hot chocolate, watching the marshmallows melt and spread out in a delicious gooey mess. I savour the taste of it, licking my lips and sipping the hot chocolate carefully so the whipped cream doesn’t end up on my nose.  
  
When I look up, Potter’s got the most peculiar look on his face.  
  
I glare at him just for good measure, and focus on finishing my drink without spilling a single drop.  


 

*

  
  
I’m not sure when it properly hits me that I’m not exactly friends with Potter.  
  
Friends makes it sound as if it isn’t fraught with arguments and years of fighting on different sides of the war. Friends makes it sound peaceful, as if I’m content to sit around talking about Potions with Granger and advising Weasley on ways to make his hair less orange. Friendships aren’t secret, clandestine things conducted in the shadows where nobody else can see.  
  
Friendship doesn’t make your cock harden when someone breathes into your ear. It doesn’t make you bite back a whimper when your  _friend_  gives your leg an innocent squeeze.  
  
Potter and I will never be friends. I’m certain of that.  


 

*

  
  
One night we’re dancing closer than we ever have, my body pressed close to Potter’s and his breath hot on my cheek. He’s so fucking gorgeous I want to Avada Kedavra myself so I don’t have to feel my stomach twisting in knots over him anymore.  
  
“Potter…” I start to say  _this is stupid_  or some sort of variation on the same theme. When Potter pulls me closer still all my carefully chosen words escape me, and he whispers in my ear. For a moment I think it might just mean something.  
  
Which is why when he asks oh so casually if I prefer to top or bottom, I throw my whisky sour in his face.  
  
It’s a fine waste of expensive booze.  


 

*

  
  
I don’t respond to Potter’s owls for a week, and I avoid the club for two Thursdays on the trot.  
  
I’m damned if I’m going to fall all over myself for the Boy Who Lived (Again) like every other Potter-loving sycophant in the world I claim to have left behind.  
  
My hiatus doesn’t last long. I miss the bright lights of Soho. I miss the rainbow flags and the streets heaving with Muggles. I miss the cabaret nights, the company and not feeling so alone. I even miss the terrible Muggle music, the sweaty bodies moving together on the dancefloor. I miss dancing and drinking until the sun comes up and I’m exhausted enough to sleep without nightmares.  
  
And as much as I hate to admit it, I miss Potter most of all.  


 

*

  
  
“You’re back.” Potter’s back by my side as soon as I step into the club, as if he’s been waiting for me to arrive.  
  
“How observant.” I give him a look and get myself a drink, because I think I deserve it if Potter’s going to look at me like a kicked crup.  
  
“I’m sorry if I overstepped the line.” Potter winces, and looks genuinely contrite. “I might have forgotten how to do this.”  
  
“This?” I’m not letting him off that easily.  
  
“Be a decent…friend.” Potter looks quite confused because, no, that isn’t quite right and he knows it as well as I do.  
  
“You might as well know that I’m not going to be another one of your conquests.” I hold my resolve and stick to my carefully planned speech. I knew Potter was going to be here. He’s  _always_  here. I lean in to Potter, and it pleases me that I’m taller even if it’s just by half an inch. “You’re not going to fuck me to forget.”  
  
“I’m not?” I like the tremor in Potter’s voice and I let it spur me on.  
  
“I’m Draco Malfoy. I’m not one of your Muggle strangers. I know everything about you.  _Everything_.”  
  
I turn from Potter but he catches my hand and pulls me close. His eyes are dark and his cheeks flushed. His face is grim, and his jaw is set.  
  
“No you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t.”  
  
“More secrets, Potter?” I give him a slow smile, and my body pulses with electricity. Being touched by Potter is like having pure magic shot through my veins, making its way to my heart which pumps hard in my chest. Wanting to fuck Potter is just as exhilarating as hating him. “You’re not the only one with secrets.”  
  
“I know.” Potter’s voice is cut glass and rough around the edges. It’s throaty, low and firm. He pulls me closer and I let myself be manhandled just for a moment. Potter’s hand is large and tanned in mine. I might be taller, but he’s bigger everywhere else – toned and athletic where I’m just sharp edges and translucent skin. “Can we start again?”  
  
It’s really bloody dangerous standing this close to Potter. His eyes flash and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth while he waits for his answer. It makes my body heat and I want to rub my thumb over his mouth and watch him suck it between his lips, making it slick and wet with his saliva. I wanted him to taste me. I want him on his knees, running his hands over my thighs and struggling to breathe as I push into the back of his throat.  
  
I don’t tell him any of that. “You’re ridiculous,” I mutter instead. “Look at you. As if there was anything to start again in the first place.”  
  
“Wasn’t there?” Potter’s voice catches and his fingers slide into my hair, just as I’d always imagined. “Funny, I thought we had promise.”  
  
“We’re not friends,” I mutter. Potter’s close enough to make my head spin and words don’t come out properly when his fingers burn against my bare skin.  
  
“No,” Potter agrees. “We’re not friends.”  
  
I want him so much my blood burns through my veins and I move closer, heterosexuality be damned. I’m not fooling anyone by clinging on to my memories of lacklustre kisses with Parkinson anymore. I heard the rumours about my preferences long before Soho and Potter. The way Potter looks at my mouth makes me wonder if anyone spread rumours about him too, and makes me wish I’d heard them sooner before Potter became some kind of war-damaged sex fiend. His eyes darken and he looks fierce and hungry.  
  
Hungry for  _me_  I realise, right before he kisses me.  
  
Potter kisses like he flies, with the confidence of someone who doesn’t have time to think about whether or not he’s doing it right. He just kisses and  _kisses_  with his usual impulsive Gryffindor bravery.  
  
I’m itching to put an end to it because I know he’s going to break my heart one of these days, but he tastes like toffee and booze and I don’t want to stop. I think part of me wants to kiss Potter forever. It’s sublime, not that I ever plan to tell him that.  
  
I bite his bottom lip just to take control. I break the kiss just long enough to tug him to the filthy alley I’ve seen him disappear to before. I shove his arms over his head, pressing him back against the wall. I know Potter likes to be in control. I see it in the way he swaggers around his conquests.  _Not this time_ , I want to tell him. He doesn’t fight it once. Instead he arches into me when I pin his hands against the wall as if he likes it. It dawns on me that he likes relinquishing control, and that maybe he hasn’t done that before. Maybe he just likes relinquishing control to  _me_.  
  
The thought makes me harder than the heavy weight of Potter’s cock, filling and hardening against my thigh. The thought makes me harder than the fact this is my first proper kiss with a man, my first time pressed close to a masculine body just like my own.  
  
“Not here.” Potter pulls back, breathing as if he’s gasping for air. His eyes are lidded and he circles his arms around my waist, breathing against my neck.  
  
I want to get back to pushing Potter against the wall and feeling his lips vibrate against mine when he moans into my mouth. I want to push my hand down his jeans and feel his cock. I want to leave the marks of my teeth on his neck and small bruises that everybody can see.  
  
I want to take him places nobody else has, give him something nobody else can and make sure that Harry Potter never, ever forgets my name.  
  
“I don’t want to stop,” I try not to sound as petulant as I feel. I narrow my eyes at Potter. “And I don’t want to go back to your cheap hotel.”  
  
Potter huffs and he brushes my hair from my face. The touch is too tender, and it hurts more than the fierce kissing. I’m not sure I can stand it.  
  
“I was thinking Grimmauld Place, if you can stand to remember you’re a wizard.”  
  
I swallow and put some distance between us, folding my arms. “And what about you, Potter? I don’t think you’ll be able to forget the war if you’re fucking  _me_.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know.” Potter shrugs. “It seems pretty far away at the moment, don’t you think?”  
  
I let him take my arm and Apparate us, because I have to agree.  


 

*

  
  
Potter Apparates us straight to his bedroom, and he’s kissing me again before I can say a word.  
  
“Fuck…I’ve wanted this for weeks. Wanted  _you_  for weeks.”  
  
“Potter…” It takes a monumental effort to push him back, and he looks at me with hooded eyes. He rubs his hand over his forehead and catches his breath, giving me a questioning smile.  
  
“I really do prefer Harry if it’s all the same to you.”  
  
“Fine.” I roll my eyes and perch on the bed, needing to put distance between me and Potter –  _Harry_. It doesn’t work, because Harry sits next to me smelling good enough to eat. The heat of his thigh against mine warms my whole body. I don’t want to sit here looking at the wall. I want to know what it feels like when Potter’s hands connect with my skin. If he feels this good pressed against me when he’s fully clothed, the thought of being naked with him sends a shiver of pleasure through my body.  
  
“Too much?” Harry’s awfully distracting. His fingers brush through my hair and he trails his lips over my neck with a sigh of pleasure. The kisses aren’t the same hurried forceful kisses of before. These ones are soft and feather-light. These are the kisses that make me wonder if Potter wants to take his time exploring me just as much as I want to explore every inch of his body.  
  
“Perhaps.” I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I’m stone cold sober, and everything feels too big to handle. I’m suddenly really fucking worried I’ll wake up in the middle of the night sweating and screaming because I can’t stop dreaming about the war. I’m worried Harry will think I’m a lunatic. Most of all I’m worried he won’t ask me to stay at all or I’ll wake up with a note on my pillow – a  _thanks_  and a crumpled Harry-shaped empty space beside me.  
  
“Doesn’t matter.” Harry brushes his lips against a spot on my neck that  _oh, Christ_. “Do you want a sandwich?”  
  
It takes me a moment to realise that isn’t some kind of sexual innuendo, and I nod because I don’t quite trust myself to speak.  
  
And that’s how I find myself in Harry Potter’s kitchen at one in the morning, eating cheese on toast.  


 

*

  
  
Harry cuts thick slices of bread, and my stomach growls with approval. I suddenly realise I’m ravenous and I take a careful bite of the hot toast with generous helpings of melted cheese when Harry finishes cooking and puts a plate in front of me.  
  
He flicks his wand to start the kettle boiling and I can’t help but linger on the way he moves his hand, casting quiet spells until we have each have cheese on toast and piping hot tea. It occurs to me that this is the first time I have seen Harry do magic, aside from Apparating us to Grimmauld Place. This is different. This reminds me that I’m sitting in my mother’s old family home with the saviour of the wizarding world. Harry’s trainee Auror robes are carelessly discarded on a nearby chair. His broom rests against the wall, next to his flying boots. There’s a picture of the Weasley family with Harry in the middle, waving at the invisible picture-take – Granger, I expect.  
  
I swallow my last mouthful of toast and wipe the corners of my mouth with a napkin.  
  
“I’m ready.”  
  
Harry’s eyebrows raise and he cocks his head to one side, his lips curving into a smile. “You are?”  
  
I know what he’s thinking and I roll my eyes to the ceiling. “Not that. I’m ready to talk about the war.”  
  
“Oh.” Harry takes a bite of his toast and chews thoughtfully. “ _Oh._  
  
The silence stretches between us until the kettle starts whistling again on the stove.  


 

*

  
  
“What do you want to talk about?” Harry breaks the silence first, after pouring another mug of tea for us both. I’m tempted to ask for booze, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a good idea to get drunk and maudlin.  
  
“All of it.” I frown. “None of it.” I tap my fingers on the table, trying to find the words. I’ve never been good at baring myself. I’m not Harry, with my heart on my sleeve. Being demonstrative comes easily to Harry, like making the right decisions and doing the right thing. “This isn’t easy for me.”  
  
“No,” Harry agrees. He pushes his mug away and pulls a face. “I suppose you want to know why I can’t find someone who sticks?”  
  
“I suppose.” I want to know desperately, but I feign casual indifference.  
  
“Fucking makes me feel alive.” Harry shrugs, and I remember him running through the rain just to feel something other than lost. His face clouds and he looks down at the table, his voice rough. “So many people died. There were too many people I couldn’t save. I see them still. All the time.” He taps his head and gives me a rueful smile. “Up here. It’s less complicated with Muggles. They don’t know anything about me and I know I’m not going to find a story about the size of my cock on the front page of the  _Prophet_.”  
  
I roll my eyes at that. “You flatter yourself to think it would warrant a whole story.”  
  
Harry grins. Eventually his smile falters, and he continues. “When I’m with someone else the ghosts disappear. For a while.”  
  
“I know,” I say, because I do. I feel it acutely, that sense of ghosts flooding every waking and sleeping moment. I hear the screams and the cries and I remember sitting stagnant and fearful, keeping my head down so I wouldn’t be next. I don’t tell Harry that, of course. He’d look at me with disappointment, his forehead crinkling and he’d ask  _how could you_? As if it’s that easy to throw your own line on the life for somebody else – as if it’s that fucking simple.  
  
“It was never your job to save everyone. It was never your job to save  _anyone_ ,” I point out.  
  
Harry lets out a huff of laughter. “That’s where you’re wrong. That wheel started turning from the very beginning, when my parents died.”  
  
I’m curious, but I have a feeling Harry isn’t going to go into more detail. The fact he just accepted his fate without question makes my body heat with shame. I want to claw at Harry and see if he’s real – if he bleeds the same blood I do. He’s oblivious to the fact he’s so righteous it makes the rest of us feel impossibly small.  
  
“Besides,” Harry continues, “I don’t want to be a hero anymore.”  
  
My gaze falls on Harry’s Auror robes and I look at him picking at splinters on the table. “But you’re everybody’s hero. It’s who you are.” I suspect now isn’t a good time to tell Potter that even if he doesn’t believe it he was my hero once, too.  
  
“No, it’s not.” Harry’s eyes flash and I see him angry for the first time since he walked into the Muggle bar and knocked my life sideways. “It’s  _not_  who I am, don’t you understand? I want to be able to fuck things up without the world watching. I want to get pissed and work out who the bloody hell I am when I’m  _not_  being a hero, or saving the world.”  
  
“You  _are_  a hero, you always will be.” I spit out my words, my shame overwhelming me. “You cry over people you couldn’t save when you might as well have been half the world away, getting yourself killed just so everybody could make up stupid songs about you and live to build the next Harry Potter memorial.” I’m vicious and unapologetic, my anger all my own and nothing to do with Harry anymore. “My ghosts are the people who begged me for help. The people who stood feet away for me and cried my name – Severus’ name – people who didn’t want to die, because they had  _so much_  to live for. Tell me, Potter – would you have cowered too? Would you have watched him work his magic until the light left their eyes? Would you have been so concerned with self-preservation that you would have done  _nothing_?”  
  
Harry meets my gaze head on and he shakes his head, his face expressionless. “No.”  
  
“And that’s why you’re a hero, whether you like it or not.” I stand, my legs unable to hold me properly anymore. I’m weary with my memories, and I don’t think I can be around Harry for a moment longer.  
  
I make my way to the Floo, but before I can leave Harry catches my hand and pulls me close. His eyes flash with heat and his jaw is set in a firm line.  
  
“ _Coward_.”  
  
“Fuck you, Potter!” I push him, hard and he stumbles back. I pull my wand from my trousers and shove it against his throat, anger burning through my veins. “Fuck you. I’m not a coward, take that back – take that back!”  
  
“Do it, then.” Harry looks at me, his eyes dark and unfathomable. “Do it, if you’re not a coward.”  
  
I keep my wand at Harry’s throat my hand shaking, and his voice takes on a low, gruff cadence.  
  
“You want to hurt me, don’t you? Then hurt me. I’m sick of fighting and I’m damned if I’m going to let you run away from me because you think I’m too  _good_. You don’t know me Malfoy. You never have, and at this rate you never will.” His voice drops until he’s almost pleading with me. “Do it.”  
  
By the time I’ve dropped my hand, Harry’s shaking and he drops onto the sofa with his head in his hands.  
  
“Get out then if you want to go,” Harry says, his voice muffled.  
  
I look towards the Floo and hesitate. This is one of those moments where I can make the right choice, or the wrong one. I can make the hard choice, or the easy one.  
  
I sit next to Harry and our knees knock together.  
  
It’s a long time before either one of us says a word.  


 

*

  
  
It occurs to me after Harry brushes his fingers through my hair and I lean against him, that maybe it’s even harder fucking up when you’re not used to it. I’ve had a lifetime of feeling inadequate and nobody expects me to be anything other than rich and entitled. I don’t have to be anything to anybody. Not anymore.  
  
Potter is different. Everybody makes their assumptions and he’s public property – just trying to get through the day living up to the impossible standards set by the media, strangers and even his friends. No wonder he gets drunk and behaves like a stupid teenager at times. He  _is_  a teenager – nineteen, just like me. Even Harry Potter doesn’t have it all worked out.  
  
I stand, and Harry looks up.  
  
When I take his hand, he follows without question.  


 

*

  
  
If kissing Harry is drowning then I never want to come up for air.  
  
A line of coke has nothing on Harry. He sets my heart beating erratically, and the slide of his hands over my hips and into my hair makes me breathless.  
  
We’re in his room and the lights from the candles flicker over the walls, casting long shadows over the wall. They bleed into one another and the strange orange glow makes Harry’s eyes look darker and brighter than ever. For the first time, I properly look and there’s a hesitancy in his gaze which holds the broken down, lost look of someone who has a lot of grieving left to do.  
  
“You’re so fucked up, Potter.” I say it quietly, Harry’s hand twined in mine and give Harry a small smile.  
  
“You too, Malfoy.” Harry doesn’t deny it, but he squeezes my hand in an expression of what? Solidarity perhaps? I like the thought of being with the real Harry – the one nobody else gets to see – the one who can make mistakes and be  _human_.  
  
I kiss Harry again, just because I can. I push him back towards the bed and we stumble together in a tangle of legs and arms, bouncing on the mattress with a laugh. We stop laughing when I start kissing Harry again, and his cock hardens against my thigh. I’m just about to make a joke – Potter’s stupid chat up line about wands and pockets – when Harry’s deft fingers work open my shirt and there’s no way I can make a joke when the tips of his fingers trace my skin as if I’m perfect. He looks at me with such reverence and rolls us over so he’s on top, kissing my neck and chest with little nibbles here and there as if he wants to taste me and commit every inch of me to memory.  
  
I can hardly breathe as his lips on my skin leave me hot and needy. When Harry’s hand slides between us, and he pulls at my buckle I let out a low groan and arch towards his hand. I want him so much I think I might just say so out loud if he keeps distracting me like this. That would be a disaster. I don’t want him to know how much I need him, although sometimes I wonder if maybe he needs me too.  
  
Harry pulls off his t-shirt and unbuckles his own belt as he tugs my trousers off. Thankfully he slides off my socks, so I don’t have to suffer the indignity of being fucked with my socks pulled halfway up my legs. Heat rises in my cheeks at the thought of being fucked by Harry, as he kisses from my ankle up my leg and brushes his lips close enough to my cock to make me murmur his name. My knees are knobbly and my legs look too white and thin, almost glowing in the candlelight. Harry doesn’t seem to care. He keeps saying my name, as if it’s something precious and he wants to savour it.  
  
When Harry slides his mouth over my cock, I know I’m not going to last long enough to get fucked by anyone. Potter’s mouth is sinful, and he does wicked things with his tongue which teases and strokes along the length of my cock as he sucks me deeper into the back of his throat. He squeezes my backside, his hands kneading my skin. His slick fingers – when did he do  _that_  I wonder – slide over me, pressing against me and making my body tremble until I’m begging him – please, Harry, please, please.  
  
And he does. His finger slides inside me and his mouth works over my cock. He pushes his finger inside me, curling it and adding another when I start begging shamelessly. He fucks me with them and I wonder how the extra stretch of his cock would feel, pushing inside my body. The thought takes me somewhere else entirely and his fingers curl and push with maddening, targeted intensity until I’m coming down his throat and it’s over far too quickly. I let out a grunt when he asks if it was okay, because now he’s just fishing for compliments.  
  
“Do you want to have sex?” I shift next to him, and notice his cock is still hard against mine.  
  
“I thought we just did.” Harry’s voice is liquid smooth and the delicious warmth of it slides over me.  
  
“Do you want to  _come_?” I clarify, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.  
  
“Always.” Harry’s voice is gruff, and he takes my hand. He murmurs the spell any young wizard growing up should know well enough by now, and there’s a marble sized ball of lube in my hand. With a hitch in his breathing, he pushes my hand down to his cock and I wrap my fingers around him. He’s so thick and long, the heavy weight of him making my mouth water. “Fuck, yes…” I’ve hardly moved but apparently just being touched feels good enough for Harry as he kisses me fiercely.  
  
The position is slightly awkward but I soon get into it, sliding my hand over Harry and pushing him back onto the bed until he’s pulsing against my palm and coming over my hand. I slide my hand over his stomach which is slick with perspiration and I kiss him again, slower this time. Eventually Harry cleans us both with a quick spell and we lie back and stare at the ceiling, our warm bodies pressed together and our fingers sliding together.  
  
“Your friends miss you,” Harry says when we’ve had time to catch our breath. “You should come to the Leaky next Wednesday.”  
  
“What’s the point?” I tense and Harry must sense it, because he slides his lips along the curve of my neck until the tension ebbs and flows from my body and I’m relaxed again.  
  
“Because I’d like you to?”  
  
I sigh, and wonder when that became the only reason I needed.  


 

*

  
  
Going back to the wizarding world isn’t what I expect. It’s a boozy night in the Leaky Cauldron and it feels like a Hogwarts reunion. Everyone looks different – a little bit older and more serious. I wonder if we’re all just children playing at being adults. I wonder how many bright smiles hide the darkest of clouds. Come out, drink, dance and try to remember how to put one foot in front of the other. All coping, but nothing more.  
  
“It’s just been such a long time.” Pansy eyes me with suspicion and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What brings you here tonight, of all nights?”  
  
I try not to let my gaze fall on Potter, who’s deep in conversation with Weasley, Longbottom and Zabini. I wonder when that happened. When Slytherins and Gryffindors started meeting in the middle of the pub, talking like old friends and clapping one another on the shoulder. Zabini says something that makes Harry laugh and a jolt of jealousy leaves me shaken.  
  
Pansy narrows her eyes and continues, her voice petulant. “We’ve missed you, Draco. Greg always asks after you. Where’s Draco, he says. All the time. I have to tell him you’ve found  _new friends_. It breaks my heart.”  
  
I roll my eyes, because Parkinson doesn’t sound heartbroken at all. She sounds almost gleeful. “I haven’t found new friends,” I reply. I take a swig of my whisky and try to ignore the sound of Harry’s laughter.  
  
Stupid of me to think I was the only one Potter would try to make amends with. It’s so like him to pick up every waif and stray and fight against prejudice. I wonder if he knows there was a time Zabini wouldn’t have spat on Potter if he was on fire. I wonder if he knows there was I time  _I_  wouldn’t.  
  
For Harry, Wednesday night at the Leaky is as familiar as dancing up a storm in Muggle bars on Thursdays. He seems to know it’s different for me, because it’s not long before he’s by my side and Pansy wanders off in a huff when he gives her short shrift.  
  
“See, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Potter’s breath tickles my ear and I bite back a groan.  
  
“It’s worse. When did Zabini become your new best friend?”  
  
Harry raises an eyebrow and laughs softly, his fingers trailing along my leg. “You’ll always be my favourite Slytherin, Malfoy. You know that.”  
  
“Fuck you,” I mutter. Harry’s fingers on my leg are distracting to say the least.  
  
Harry’s eyebrows knit into a frown and he stops teasing. “I’m sorry, I’m just kidding. You know that…don’t you?”  
  
I nod, not looking at Harry.  
  
“Do you want to go?” Harry sounds almost disappointed, and I finally meet his eyes with a shake of my head. Not for the first time I feel like I’m drowning when I look at him.  
  
“I’ll stay. Just make sure you get me pissed.” I give him a slow smile, and lean close to whisper in his ear. “And promise me you’ll make it up to me. However I may choose.”  
  
“Fuck, yes.” Harry’s voice is unsteady and his eyes close for a moment as he lets out a ragged breath. “However you want.”  
  
“Fighting talk.” I wink at Harry, marginally cheered by the opportunity to make Potter do anything I ask. Not that I think he’d deny me much. Probably.  
  
Drinking and being around Harry is familiar territory for both of us, not that anybody else knows it and we’re not as careful as we should be. We spend longer than necessary chatting to one another until I notice the Slytherins giving us uncertain looks and Granger looks at me as if she’s trying to solve a difficult Arithmancy problem.  
  
It’s not easy to pretend Harry is just an irritation in another boring day. Not when I ache from taking him inside me in the shower just this morning. Not when it feels like I’ll die if I can’t touch Harry. He used my shampoo and he smells of citrus and soap. I want to run my tongue over the place where his pulse beats in his neck. I want to ask if he’ll let me tie his hands at the wrists and fuck him into eager submission. My hands keep drifting closer, my fingers itching to brush against his shirt. When he whispers something in my ear, I almost come on the spot because all I can feel is him pushing inside me and all I can hear is  _Draco, Draco, Draco_.  
  
“Let’s get some fresh air.” The waver in Harry’s voice lets me know he’s finding this just as difficult as me.  
  
I nod, putting my drink down and responding just as soon as I can speak again. “Ten minutes apart. You first.” My lips form into a small smile. “It’s freezing outside.”  
  
Harry laughs, and the sound warms me to the tips of my toes. I tap my fingers impatiently on the bar while Pans returns to witter on about something. I make my escape as soon as I think ten minutes must have passed and it feels like a lifetime.  
  
“Five minutes.” Harry’s gives me a wide grin. “Couldn’t wait, I take it?”  
  
“You wish, Scarhead.” I’m on him in a second, kissing him like my life depends on it and he’s kissing me back. I wonder if he’ll spin me against the wall but he seems happy to let me take control this time, taking my hand and pressing it to the front of his jeans.  
  
“Do you know what you’ve done to me? All night I’ve wanted this…wanted you…”  
  
“Harry…I…” I stop myself from speaking by kissing him again, hard, hoping he won’t catch the tremor in my breathing. The kiss is  _everything_  which is why I want to start casting Unforgivables when Weasley comes barging in out of nowhere.  
  
The first blast knocks me off my feet and I land on the floor with an undignified thump. I barely manage to extract my wand when another spell catches me on the side of my face, like a hard slap against my cheek.  
  
“What the fuck are you doing to him? Harry…Harry, are you okay?”  
  
It takes me a minute to check if my lip is bleeding and longer to realise that Weasley thinks I’m taking advantage of Potter. I don’t know if it’s the booze or the fact I’m so furious at Weasley I want to rip his ginger head off, but I start to laugh.  
  
Harry’s isn’t laughing. He pulls me to my feet and brushes his fingers over my cheek where the spell hit me and shakes his head at Weasley, his jaw clenched.  
  
“What the hell was that?”  
  
“I thought he was attacking you!” Weasley’s cheeks turn beet red and he looks from me to Harry and back again. “Wasn’t he?”  
  
“Did I  _look_  as if I was being attacked?” Harry raises his eyebrows at Weasley, who furrows his brow and shrugs. “Besides, I’m training to be an Auror. I’m pretty sure I could fend off Malfoy.”  
  
I huff. That isn’t quite the glowing defence I expect and I’m sorely tempted not to kiss Potter again if this is the way he defends my honour.  
  
“You were snogging Malfoy… _willingly_?” Weasley’s voice holds a note of desperation and I snort, ignoring him and keeping close to Harry.  
  
“Get rid of him,” I say, crossly.  
  
“Don’t make it worse,” Harry mutters but he slides his hand into mine and squeezes.  
  
“So you and Malfoy are what?” Weasley looks ill, and it lifts my cross mood a little.  
  
“Working out our differences?” Harry spreads out his hands and shrugs, a sheepish look on his face.  
  
“Christ, Harry.” Weasley stuffs his wand into his pocket, his cheeks flushed. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”  
  
“Not a clue, if I’m honest.”  
  
Weasley looks at Harry head on, the tips of his ears still pink. “Is he the first? Bloke, I mean?”  
  
I snort and Harry squeezes my hand again, none too gently. He clears his throat and shakes his head. “No.”  
  
Weasley shifts uncomfortably and he doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “Did you ever like…me?”  
  
“Merlin’s balls, no.” Harry lets out a bark of laughter and Weasley glares.  
  
“You could do a lot worse than me, you know. Malfoy, for example. That’d be worse.  _Much_  worse.”  
  
“I don’t think we’d be best mates anymore if I’d have spent the last however many years in love with you, do you?”  
  
“Suppose not.” Weasley shuffles his feet and I watch with fascination. Watching Gryffindors interact is like studying a strange, alien lifeform. I think, not for the first time, how peculiar Potter and Weasley are. That doesn’t stop me shifting closer to Harry when I have the opportunity.  
  
“You’re okay with this?” Harry’s voice is uncertain and I realise with a flood of understanding how important this strange tacit acceptance is to him.  
  
“With the fact you like blokes?” Weasley rakes his hand through his hair and nods. “Not a problem. With Malfoy?” Weasley looks at me, his expression suspicious. “Wizengamot’s out on that one.”  
  
“Give it time.” Harry and Weasley stare at one another for a charged moment, and the air crackles with tension. I wonder what that look says – how well they can recognise every shift in mood and every shift in expression after all of that time fighting together. I imagine them both going to war as Auror partners and see the Harry who belongs to this world shine through. I picture him covering his friend’s back, casting fierce spells and brushing his hand over his face which is streaked with blood, mud and tears.  
  
I shiver and fight the inclination to clutch onto Harry and tell him to do something safer. Like run a Muggle nightclub or run away with me to the South of France. But then, I’ve always been a coward.  
  
Finally Weasley makes an awkward retreat with another anxious look over his shoulder.  
  
“Unfortunately your friend’s heroics killed the mood.” I brush some dirt from my trousers and refuse to meet Potter’s eyes. “I’ll see you inside.”  
  
“No you won’t.” Harry grabs my hand as I walk away and pulls me against him. His body is warm against my own and my heart betrays me, quickening in my chest at his proximity. “Now, where were we?”  
  
I barely have time to roll my eyes before we’re kissing again, as if we’ll never stop.  


 

*

  
  
I get up late the next day after sleeping until after noon. I make myself a cup of tea, even though I’d rather have a scotch. The milk is off and it leaves curdled spots of white in my tea which tastes sour and unappealing. It reminds me of white powder on a mirror sliced into rough rows.  
  
I push the thought to one side because I’ve promised Harry I won’t go back there.  
  
It’s a deal we made. He stops fucking around, and I stop snorting coke. He stops flirting with Soho waiters and I stop taking the piss out of his hair. That was a joke, though. I’ll never stop doing that.  
  
Now that I’ve got Harry, I won’t risk losing him for a high I don’t even need. I don’t want to lose the memory of him. I want to ache with it, and to close my eyes just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin under my palms. I don’t want his face to flicker in my mind, fuzzy around the edges and losing its bright intensity. I don’t want his words disappearing like ghosts on the wind – I want to remember the low cadence of his voice, the vibrations from a hum of laughter.  
  
Most of all, I want to hold on to how he says my name. From  _Malfoy_  to  _Draco_  and everything in between.  
  
It’s pathetic, how my life has become defined by increments of Harry Potter. Before Harry.  _During_  Harry.  
  
I’ve started getting the  _Prophet_  again, and it lands on my kitchen table with a thud.  
  
As if on cue, there’s a picture of Harry on the front. He’s wearing his Auror robes and he’s holding up a medal and an armful of flowers. It’s the sort of picture which would have left me agitated, once. Now I know Harry enough to see his smile looks forced and uncertain. His knuckles clutch the medal tightly and I wonder if he’s thinking of me in the same way I can’t seem to stop thinking about him.  
  
The Floo whooshes and I say without turning around, “They gave you a medal.”  
  
“Yeah.” Harry doesn’t sound too pleased and his warm arms circle around me, while he nuzzles my neck. “I didn’t want it. I just want to…be.”  
  
Be here? Be Harry? Be left alone? Maybe it’s all of those things at once. I turn in the circle of Harry’s arms and kiss him soundly. His hands slide over my sides and it seems to help him. He pushes me back against the kitchen table, his kisses deepening as he yanks at my shirt.  
  
“Potter, I’ve only just got dressed.” Even as I say it, I’m unbuckling his belt and helping him take my shirt off. “Where are the flowers?”  
  
“Flowers are for graves.” Harry pulls at my shirt and groans, as his teeth connect with my skin. I love it when he’s like this – when he’s vital and desperate for me. I should have remembered Harry hates flowers. They remind him of the dead.  
  
“Potter… _Potter_.” I shove Harry back and he stops, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Do you have to go back to the Ministry?”  
  
“Not today.” Harry looks uncertain, his shirt hanging off his back and his belt unbuckled. The outline of his erection pushing hard against his trousers makes me salivate.  
  
“Then what’s the rush?”  
  
I know the wild look in Harry’s eyes and I won’t be fucked while he’s somewhere else, trying to drown out whatever he hears when he closes his eyes at night. Instead I grab his hand and lead him upstairs, stripping out of the rest of my clothes and getting back into bed.  
  
“I know what you’re doing.” Harry’s lips twitch into a smile and he takes off his clothes. His cock is still hard and gorgeous, jutting against his stomach.  
  
“You do?”  
  
“You’re trying to help.” Harry slides between the sheets and he sighs against my neck. “Thank you.”  
  
I shrug. It’s not entirely altruistic. I still plan to have sex, and soon.  
  
As if to prove my point, I push Harry back onto the bed and settle over him. It’s new. It’s often Potter being passionate and reckless, pushing my knees against my chest and staring into my eyes when he fucks me. It’s usually him pressing against me when we wake on lazy mornings and turning me towards the sheets. He fucks me with hard with determined purpose and kisses me into total submission. I’m shameless when it comes to Potter’s cock and he knows it as well as I do.  
  
I whisper in his ear and his expression flickers, before he nods.  
  
_“Yes.”_  
  
His cock stays hard and the world keeps turning. From the flush in his cheeks I think he might like the idea as much as I do, and I’ve been fucked enough times by now to know how it works. I brush my lips to Harry’s neck and he shivers beneath me.  _Interesting_.  
  
I slide my hands along the length of Harry’s body, running my tongue over his cock and worshipping him with it. He’s pliant and eager, his breath coming in ragged little pants as his knuckles whiten when his hands clutch onto the sheets. I take my time with him, just as he has done with me so many times before. I make sure my fingers are nice and slick and run my fingers over him time and against, teasing and pressing as I suck his balls into my mouth and tongue the tip of his cock.  
  
He’ll beg me, I’ll make damn sure of that.  
  
“Draco,  _please_.”  
  
Ah, it’s music to my ears. The breathy, spindly unsteadiness of Potter’s voice and the way he perspires and squirms beneath me is delightful. He’s so responsive I can hardly bring myself not to just take him then and there, until his eyes roll back and he’s calling out my name.  
  
Of course, I don’t. Instead I slide my fingers into him, biting back a groan of my own at the way his hot body clenches around me. If he feels like this with just two fingers inside him, I wonder how he’ll feel around my cock – tight and eager. I pump my fingers slowly into him, crooking them and gathering the pre-come leaking from the tip of Harry’s cock onto my tongue. He’s so fucking lovely when he’s hard and wanting. He always fucks with such intensity it takes my breath away but this – this is new to him too.  
  
When I think he’s ready, I slick my cock and press against him. I want to see him for this. I want to hear his breathing falter when I push inside him. I want to watch his pupils dilate and his cheeks flush pink, and I want to see the shapes his mouth makes when my name forms on his lips.  
  
“I don’t want you anywhere else,” I tell him. I mean it too. I don’t want him to lose himself somewhere which takes him away from me, and I think he understands. He reaches down and urges me forwards until I’m fully seated.  
  
“ _Fuck_.” Harry’s voice is no longer reed thin and unsteady. Instead it’s firm and hard. He wants me to fuck him. He  _likes it_.  
  
I’ve never treated Harry like a delicate thing no matter how much our stories of the past sometimes make my heart clench for him, and I have no intention of starting now. Instead, I fuck him as I like to be fucked. I take him hard, with deep strokes pushing inside his body. I kiss him roughly and suck at his neck until he practically mewls beneath me. I can feel him wanking himself as he bends and arches beneath me, and the thought nearly tips me over the edge. It’s so  _good_  seeing Harry like this, I can hardly contain myself.  
  
“You’re such a slut,” I say, and the words hang between us.  
  
For a moment, I think there might be laughter or – worse – anger. Instead there’s a breathless heartbeat of a moment and then Harry saying  _yes_  in a gruff, throaty way.  
  
I murmur in his ear, a litany of filth. I take us back to school and I ask him how it feels to be fucked by Draco Malfoy. I tell him how long I’ve been thinking about this, how I’ve known it’s what he wanted since he started following me around all those years ago. I call him words which are filthy and obscene and I hold his hands over his head as he gasps and writhes beneath me. I tell him all the things I plan to do with him, and make him promises I have every intention of keeping. I keep him  _with me_. This isn’t someone else, taking Harry’s pain away – it’s me, Draco Malfoy – and Harry loves it.  
  
We come almost together, me first with Harry just a moment behind. We collapse onto the sheets, sated and exhausted and my heart thuds in my chest.  
  
I wonder if was too much. Perhaps in the aftermath, Harry might question those words which slipped out so easily in the height of passion.  
  
Harry doesn’t question anything. “You’re a filthy bastard,” he says instead. He’s smiling as he says it, and he presses his cheek to my chest so he can listen to my heartbeat. His fingers dance over my stomach and brush along my thigh. They move up to my belly and back to my chest where his palm settles opposite my heart.  
  
“It was good?” I like praise, and it’s important to ask.  
  
Harry snorts in response, and kisses me with a roll of his eyes.  


 

*

  
  
One night, we go back to the club where it all started.  
  
My new therapist is quite insistent that I shouldn’t surround myself with drugs and Muggles. She’s a much more reputable choice than the last one, and she says some sensible things. I really should listen to her, but I know there’s only one thing I’m looking for and it’s not a chemically induced high.  
  
It takes two turns of the dancefloor and one and a half whisky sours before I see him.  
  
I can’t breathe when I’m this close to Harry. My lungs fill with a sudden intake of breath and my heart stutters and pounds in my chest. My hands sweat, heat rises in my cheeks and my neck itches just as it always does when I’m nervous – just along the line of my collar where my shirt rubs uncomfortably against my warm skin.  
  
He looks at me as he used to, eye-fucking me from across the bar. I smile, and wink. He flushes to the tops of his ears and the easy confidence of his smile hides any hesitation in his gaze.  
  
I decide to meet him halfway and his eyes bore into mine until it’s almost uncomfortable.  
  
“Harry…”  
  
The way he looks at me makes my heart clench and my body chill. He’s got this dark stare and I wonder if he’s going to finally say all the things I expect him to. Perhaps he’ll break it to me gently, with a  _no_ ,  _stop_ ,  _I can’t_. Perhaps he’s going to say  _I don’t love you anymore_  or worse, confirm he never loved me at all. He’s never told me that he does, after all. I hear his voice telling me it’s the end over and over until my head pounds and all I can do is keep looking, and hoping.  
  
I say his name, tripping off my tongue and not quite pleading.  _Harry_. I wish I could say more, I hope he knows I can’t. I have my wall and it’s not going to crumble at the first crinkling in the corners of his eyes, or the first curve of his lips. It’s not going to fall just because he looks good enough to eat or because I know the way the hair curling against his neck feels between my fingers. None of that is enough.  
  
He swallows, and his throat bobs. I wonder if he’s as nervous as me. I wonder if Harry Potter has been reduced to silence just by looking into my eyes.  
  
“Malfoy, I-”  
  
And I know it. I know what he’s going to say and it’s not  _goodbye_  or  _this is the end_. He’s going to say something even more terrifying. Something which makes my skin heat and which sends waves of emotion through my body until it’s difficult to keep focused on him.  
  
I can see the flicker of pain in Harry’s eyes. There’s a darkness there, and ghosts which keep him caught somewhere between life and death as he tries to work out who he is when he doesn’t have a war to fight. He’s lost too many people he loves and part of me wonders if he’s terrified of losing another one. The stupid club is too loud for this and there are too many dark shadows which hold memories of Harry and other men. I tug him outside, just in time for the thunder to clap and the rain to fall as he continues to watch me without saying a word.  
  
I’m close enough to see the rain fall from his hair onto his nose, and drip from the end onto his lips. I’m close enough to feel his hot breath on my cheeks despite the chill in the night air. The fresh scent of rain fills my nostrils and I inhale. It smells like the night when we ran without speaking, just to feel alive. I’m reminded of Harry’s arms stretched out and his face upturned to the sky, and the sound of crying from the room next door to mine. I’m reminded of a hastily written note, and a room smelling of freshly fallen rain.  
  
“You’re really quite fucked up, Potter.” I tell him again, just as I did on the night of our first kiss. I press closer to Harry. “It makes me feel quite together, really. Who would have thought?”  
  
Harry’s eyes widen and then he laughs. I can feel the tension leave his body, and the dark clouds leave his face. His eyes shine as he looks at me and he slides his hand into my hair. My heart thuds so loudly I’m sure he must be able to hear it nearly pounding out of my chest. I grip onto his jacket and he’s soaked through. His hands are large and steadying on my hips. His body is so familiar I know every flex of his muscles and every hitch of his breathing.  
  
“You finally noticed?” Harry breathes in, then out and suddenly the words come out in a rush. “I love you.”  
  
And I kiss him, because I already know.

 

 

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